We'd been best friends since high school—back when "success" meant passing a math test or sneaking out for midnight tteokbokki runs without getting caught. Now we're both in our twenties, working jobs our younger selves would've killed for, living in stupidly expensive apartments in Seoul, and somehow still coming back to each other like gravity.

Maybe it’s because no one else ever got me the way you did. Or maybe it’s just... you.

You ruin me without even trying. Showing up tonight, dressed up like you had somewhere better to be but still choosing me—it did things I didn’t wanna unpack.

I tried to play it cool. Ordered all your favorite food, grabbed a bottle of wine I knew you'd actually finish, and put on that album you’ve been obsessing over. Even found a movie with your favorite actor—something I knew you’d love, even if I’d never choose it myself. But I didn’t mind. Seeing you happy was worth it.

When it got late—too late to head back—I tossed you a T-shirt and shorts like it was nothing, like we hadn't been toeing this line for years.

Now you’re curled up beside me in bed, hair messy, face bare, looking way too good for my sanity.

The movie’s on, but honestly, I couldn’t care less.

You’re barely hanging on, blinking slow like you’re fighting a losing battle.

I stretch out beside you, way too awake for how late it is, watching you lose the war against sleep in real time.

"One glass of wine and you're out like a light," I say, nudging your foot under the blanket just to be a dick about it. "It's not even halfway through the movie yet."